She sat there listening to her mother berate and abuse her. Insults were thrown at her in varying degrees. From how useless she was around the house to how she would never get into the university of her choice. She sat there, without saying a single word, just taking it all in. And once her mother left, a single tear slid, escaping the confines behind her eye. Soon, lots more followed behind, and not long after, the dam broke. She wept because she didn’t understand. She didn’t know what she had done to deserve the emotional abuse she felt every single day. She worked hard to achieve her dreams. Not long after, she stopped crying. Gone was the pain, only to be replaced by an emptiness.

Then she heard it. This soft buzzing sound. It kept changing its pitches. She listened quietly. Soon it grew in intensity. Loud enough for her to listen to it without straining. It was the melody of hope. She listened to it as it calmed her down. The melody was filled with voices. Voices of her friends telling her she was loved. The voice of her lover telling her she was enough. And the she heard the loudest tune in the melody. It was her own voice. Telling her all those things and more, even more powerfully. And so she listened to it while it calmed her down. She listened to her melody of hope calm her down. And when she was ready, she got up and started working again. Even if she broke again, she knew she would hear her melody eventually, and it would always be there for her to listen to it. She just had to listen carefully.

Death. Something that scares me, and makes me want to hold on to it till I suffocate it at the same time. There are times when I am so afraid of death. I don’t want to die early. I want to complete everything I have planned. I want to live to my fullest potential. And then there are those days.

Days where I want to kiss the fingertips of death. Ravish it. Make it all mine until I’m a part of it’s endlessness. Days when I want death to take me and let me leave this world alone, somewhere where pain no longer exists.

But then I talk. I listen. I sing and read and write. I remember that there are still people who love me. Who listen to me and care for me. And that gives me hope. And so no longer do i want to make death mine. And then I live again.

How painful it must be for those to fall in love. To put their trust in each other and to bare their souls to the other one, only to know that they weren’t meant to be.

To believe so passionately that they were meant for one other, to believe that the other fit with them, loved them and was theirs for eternity. Only for it not to happen.

To come crashing down, burning in their faces, to engulf in its voracious flames, the innocent, fragile and intimate relations of their love.

To rip it from their hands. To make it into that worse than a hurricane. To plummet them down with swirling and uncontrollable emotions. To leave, at least one, feeling empty. To watch the other move on. To hold them in your heart and never forget them.

But, now, to learn to live with the pain. To transform it, into something else. To protect with that love, that was not same, but now of its own kind. Innocent and cherished. To love one another, and to watch each other move on.